


Take Care Of Me

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cutting, F/M, Self-Harm, mythea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 19:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he shows up at your door, you have no option other than to take him inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Care Of Me

It's midnight. You're not asleep, you hardly ever sleep anymore, and you're awake with a book you've yet to finish the first chapter of. You knew when you took the job that you wouldn't have very much time for leisure, but you thought you'd have at least a small amount of time by yourself. As you sip from your water glass (you gave up your beloved wines and bourbon long ago) you hear a knock.

 

Apparently, you had less time to yourself than you thought.

 

You stand up, your bare feet coming into contact with the soft yet still cold carpet, and walk to the door. You open it, and see him; it's never anyone else, anymore.

 

His skin is cold, wet, and pale, and you notice that the water on his face is not only from the torrential downpour currently happening outside. He looks up at you, your eyes meeting; green meets red-rimmed grey. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out, and you notice how pale his lips are. He's freezing; he always shows up at your door in distress, you don't know why you're surprised now. You take his hand, guide him into your flat, and into your arms. He invaded your heart long ago, no need to let him inside there a second time.

 

You say nothing, you'll lecture him later, and guide him into your bathroom, stripping him of his soaked clothes as you go. He isn't wearing a raincoat, stupid; he does it to punish himself, that much you know. For what, you will never understand. You suppose it's the stress, the pain of having to make decisions that can save or end the lives of hundreds of people. It would kill anyone else to make those decisions.

 

At times, you wonder if it's killing him.

 

"Here," you say softly, unbuttoning his soaked dress shirt and guiding it off his shoulders, exposing red skin, chapped from the icy water and wind. You tsk, low in your throat, and run your hand over it; he's so cold.

 

Iceman, you think. The nickname does fit, if only in this physical sense. He flinches when you touch him, worries his lip as you run your fingers over the scars. "You're punishing yourself." You think, running your hands over the more recent wounds. Angry, purple, thin. You see the silvery glinting of old scars, and the light pink of more recent ones, not yet faded. You look; forearms, shoulders, stomach, chest; places that are easily covered by his meticulous three-piece suits.

 

The damn suits. If he'd just dressed like a normal person, maybe you'd have seen it earlier. You still kick yourself for not seeing what he was doing, but deep down, you know you couldn't have possibly known. When he wants to hide something, he hides it well.

 

You hear a gasp, and look up; he's crying again, and soon you see why. A fresh bandage, on his side, stained with blood. You let out a soft breath, and reach out to touch it. He doesn't know how to bandage himself. A genius, and yet an idiot.

 

You turn on the faucet, making sure the water is warm enough, but not enough to scald; he doesn't need to punish himself any more tonight. You reach down to unbutton his trousers, slowly sliding the wet fabric down, and help him out of them. More scars, littering the tops of his thighs. He's sliced himself up like a prized cut of meat, and you're angry. You're always angry, when you see them. It reminds you of the one thing you can't control, the one injustice you can't stop.

 

Despite weak protests that you know he doesn't mean, you slide off his pants. Even his soft, ginger pubic hair is damp from the rain. Briefly, you let your eyes wander over his small cock. You've seen it so often, these past few years, that it holds no sexual meaning for you anymore. You place your hand on his left forearm, and guide him into the tub, letting him slide down into the water. You kneel down next to the porcelain, and take his hand, pressing it against your cheek.

 

Every scar, every burn, and every mark he's left on his beautiful, freckled skin is kissed by you. He's too distraught to protest, and allows you to bathe him, as you've done many times before when he is incapable.

 

Briefly, you wonder how things might have been different, had you not taken this job. Would you have a husband, a wife perhaps, children. Would you be holding a crying baby now, instead of a government official struggling to hold everything in? It doesn't matter, you tell yourself. You chose this path, and if you're completely honest with yourself, you wouldn't change it for anything. He needs you, you realize; he's always needed you, you just weren't there.

 

"It's okay," you find yourself saying, words that have been repeated over and over until they're hoarse in your throat. You allow him a bit of time to soak, and carefully clean his fresh wounds, cursing yourself for every single one. Cursing everyone.

 

He looks at you, his eyelids heavy and sore from the inevitable crying he's done, and nods tiredly; you just sigh. Without a word, you help him stand, give him a towel to preserve his modesty (as if there is anything you two have not shared already) and begin to dry him, carefully around the new cuts. You move the towel up into his hair, drying it messily as you did so many years ago, when you first did this with him. You pull the towel away, and can't help but smile. His hair is fluffy, his curls askew; he looks like the man you knew before, and it is both wonderful and painful. "Hey now," you say softly, reaching up to pat his cheek. "There's my pretty Myc."

 

He gives you a sad look, and bites his lip again, looking down at his feet. Without even mimicking his motion, you know they are probably bruised, sore. You'll rub them later. For now, you guide him out of the room, not bothering to clean up (what's the point, anymore) and into your bedroom, allowing him to lie down in the comfortable, warm, soft sheets. They aren't silk, like his; cheap cotton, though you could afford better with what he pays you. You give his cheek another soft touch before moving to the edge of the bed and taking hold of his favourite blanket, pulling it over him. You lean over, and turn out the light, and crawl in next to him, spooning up behind him. Keeping him safe.

 

That's all you've ever wanted, really. For him to be safe. You hold him close, and press kisses to every scar you can reach, gently touching the ones you cannot reach with your lips. You murmur soothing words.

 

"Beautiful."

 

"Strong."

 

"I love you."

 

The last one, you wonder sometimes if it would be better if you didn't love him. It would hurt less.

 

After a long while, he turns over in your arms, and slithers down, burying his face in your chest, his still-damp curls tickling your neck. There is a moment, a soft breath, and then he speaks.

 

"Don't go."

 

"I won't ever," you promise, and you mean it. "I'll take care of you until the end of your days. I promise."

 

"Take care of me?" he murmurs, and seems surprised. "Yes," you reply, kissing his freckled forehead and pulling him close. "I promise. Always."

 

"Take care of me." he says again, and you can feel his body relaxing against yours. You nod, kiss his head, and wait; his breathing evens out some time later and you know he's asleep. Your mind wanders to the typical employer/employee relationship social contract, and you almost laugh. The two of you left normalcy in the review mirror long ago. Somehow, you don't mind at all. You let your own eyes fall shut, and wrap both legs around him protectively. You feel your exhaustion taking over, and allow yourself to slip into a comfortable sleep.

 

And in the morning, you'll take care of him. Just like always.


End file.
